Monday, February 17, 2014

Across The Aisle #1: Fundamentals of Separation Anxiety

WARNING:Across the Aisle features a weekly helping of extraordinary, yet exploratory, writing, gratuitous pop culture abuse, and complimentary Funyons. Due to our conscious decision to explore familiar themes in an inimitable, though inherently divisive, manner, such brilliance is solely intended for mature reading audiences. This is Hive Mind 101. That glorious moment when Wonder Twin powers activate. Jay Connor. Alex Hardy. The triumphant return of Voltron. These ain’t no studio tricks. Enjoy.

Fundamentals of Separation Anxiety

Jay Connor: Atrophy. Atrophy?
Say it with me: A-truh-fee. “The degeneration, decline, or decrease, as
from disuse.” An odious manifestation of sexual dormancy and undesirability. A
distinction traditionally reserved for niggas much more aesthetically
heinous than I, and synonymous with either possession of a Christian Mingle
account or a collossal dearth in human companionship. Atrophy. Yes, that sounds
about right. My penis is slowly dying for all of our sins.

Alex Hardy: You too? Atrophy is
quite the succinct descriptor. It is strangely refreshing to see that even
across the aisle, there’s also a gorge between Desirables and Desireds. Oddly
encouraging that we who consider ourselves The Bomb have the same romantic
woes, regardless of where we fall on the HomoHetero Spectrum. Loneliness, like
Dennis Rodman I reckon, does not discriminate where making itself at home up
inside someone is concerned. I wonder if this is like watching a lunatic on reality
television who is convinced that everyone else is the source of their
despair, when, in reality….

JC: Okay, fine. Fine.
You might be onto something. Track 7 on MJ’s Bad much? I’m not one to point
fingers and name names, but some of us are actually trying to break the
sanity-deprived cycle here and ward off these beautifully broken evil spirits.
What’s your excuse?

AH: Me? I am human. I
recognize that I'm too scatterbrained to pursue dating on a level above Regular
Bed Buddy of Proven Quality right now. Or something. "I'm working on
myself," I believe the saying is, yes? But this human need for
companionship often means placeholders. Attractive ones. People who would not
be acknowledged in more lucid times. Was that the right answer? Or do you prefer
to go it completely alone and underfucked until finding the new and improved
wind beneath your wings?

JC:Nah, that should suffice.
Provided that’s what you’re actually doing. In The Wonderful World of
Hetero, however, “I’m working on myself” is rejection speak for “thanks, but
you seem to be missing your pinky toes.” Women don’t handle rejection well.
Those “Snapped” episodes don’t manufacture themselves.

AH: So, what’s the fix? How
do we make the cycle a little less maddening? Serial dating? Skeet and repeat
until someone tolerable comes along? We can’t all sit around and lament
the poor pickings. Can we agree that this solves nothing?

JC: I won’t agree to shit.
Contractual obligations give me hives. However, I will counter offer. That
being to, at the very least, poke my toe in the shallow pools of courtship.
Though I’m not entirely sure how that works on your end of the spectrum. Let’s
say someone catches your eye in the grits aisle at your friendly neighborhood
Panamanian grocer. Are you traditionally the hunter, the prey or the Stevie J?

AH:Well, as I venture closer
to thirty than twenty, I have found myself more open to approaching people I’m
interested in. Since being here, I’ve actually taken the next step and
initiated a conversation after that moment where I look back and you look back
and then someone has to do something. But I do often let my nerves get the best
of me, even when it’s established that interest is mutual. Being here in
Panama, where gents of a level deserving of much other than a good old fashion Christian
Hump and Dump aren’t exactly falling from the sky, it’s not normal to
flirt with strangers. Add into that the affect of nerves on my ability to spit
game in Spanish and I wind up lusting silently more often than not. I’m totally
open to courtship, as I’ve barely dipped my ankle in here so far, having spent
months dating someone who apparently was not dating me. Upside: My ho shit
Spanish is now unfuckwitable, which is a highly transferrable life skill, no?
Do you tend to admire, creepily, from afar? Or do you make your interest known
when someone less than terrible reveals herself?

JC: This is one of those
fleeting moments where I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m
free………. to flirt with strangers. But to answer the question, I think my
fatal flaw is I’m not thirsty enough. Wait. Lemmie ‘splain. SPOILER
WARNING:I’m not the dude that will spend his evening cat
calling and breathing down more necks than a vampire. Sadly, such desperation
is nowhere to be found in my DNA, which apparently isn’t working in my favor.
I’m more of a mingler. Why? Because real niggas mingle, dammit. I sip
and indulge on overpriced libations, converse with whomever has the best credit
score, and just go with the flow. If the pendulum swings towards courtship and
sexual impropriety, one of those condoms in my wallet is destined to eventually
die for our sins. If not, my Facebook newsfeed just got a tad more convoluted
by its latest addition. Because you can never have enough BitStrips. So
to summarize, apparently I need to be a little more Scar and a little
less hakuna matata.

AH: Sure, being all brash
and Lady Elouise about the situation all sounds very impressive, but I know it’s
much easier said than done. Mingling? Hmm. I can admit that I become more fun
with a few heavy-handed brown liquor situations in me, but mingling is
key. My last two quasi-relationships stemmed from mingling and just being
visible and approachable. I’ll admit my priorities of late have shifted from
socializing and meeting the next man my father gets to beat around the bush to
inquire about to wearing tank tops and having people watch me dance and look
amazing and talk to no one. Which brings us right the fuck back around to the
now. Perhaps I’ve convinced myself it won’t happen here and am emitting beams
of LeaveMeAlone? Maybe I need to be a little more Ready, Set, Eat, Pray, Law of
Attraction about the situation.

JC: Ohhhhhhh, so you’re that
kid in the arcade—I mean—dance floor, who smashes it in Dance Dance
Revolution, while everyone stands around gawking with a heart full of envy and
a fist full of sweaty quarters? Nothing about that scenario sounds even
remotely conducive to successfully attaining a life partner. Nigga, are you trying
to die on Atrophy Island?

AH:So far, showing out in
public has been good at people seeing me, and telling me later when we
cross paths, “Oh, I remember you from…” but has brought me exactly zero dates,
phone numbers, or skeets. So, perhaps I should rethink my strategies? I’ll have
to find a balance. I’m not going out to two-step awkwardly with you as you
search the depths of your soul for the appropriate beat on which to shimmy your
shoulders. Historically, if I find someone who can keep up on the floor, it’s
usually a breasted person…which is as meaningful for my romantic aspirations as
being a respectable representative of the Black community is for Don Lemon.
What do you suggest?

JC: Well shit, I don’t
purport to be Patti Stanger, but I just had a come to Jesus meeting with common
sense and it requested that I kindly inform you that communication is a
prerequisite for a healthy, hump heavy relationship. Though body language (and
must) speaks volumes, it’ll take more than Omarion pirouettes and
monopolizing all the single women to stumble upon your better half. But since
you’d rather pop lock than talk, have you considered online dating? Match.com?
Plenty of Fish? Farmers Only?

AH: I could easily write a
memoir about my online adventures alone. As safe spaces for dudes to meet dudes
aren’t always plentiful, many turn to these good Internets to find others often
in our own communities that we wouldn’t have been able to connect with
otherwise, say, in a bar or other such environment. Of course there are DATING
sites, and then are “dating” sites, where it’s not uncommon to scroll through a
few pages of dicks, chests, and asses like a Fingerhut catalog. It cuts through
some of the awkward introductory fuckshit, as one can make their aims known at
the onset. Little in the way of romance has resulted on “dating” sites for me.
I’ll consider DATING portals when I’m in a…browner city. Here in Panama,
Chocolate Thunder ain’t online. He’s living with his mother until 40 and in the
closet thanks to residual Caribbean-infused homophobia. Great times, really.

JC: Oh, so you don’t cross
pollinate? Strictly (black) dickly?

AH:It’s been ages. Had a
moment in New Orleans with a particularly handsome, brawny stud. Things got
interesting, and she had locs and broad shoulders and I was muy muy conflicted
but nah. Pregnancy scare at 17 aaaaaand scene. I appreciate a nice well-formed
titty like the next dude, buuuut actual vaginal excavation? Most I’ve done
since is some heavy petting and a little tongue action. It occasionally crosses
my mind, depending on what I’ve consumed, because I don’t apparently SCREAM
sissy, to satisfy my curiosity and see if I still got it. I’ve had chances. But
alas. *turns table* Can you, comfortably and without the need to say NO HOMO,
recognize another bedicked individual is less than hideous?

JC: ……..Hold up. Is this a
setup? Do I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth, so help me inquisitory God? I mean, shit. I’m comfortable enough in my
masculinity to traverse the streets in salmon pants and openly mancrush on
Justin Timberlake, but I don’t think *proceeds to wade through a
crescendo of internal bemusement* I would have a problem acknowledging that
yes, there are those amongst my masculine ilk who would qualify as less than
repulsive. It’s kind of like when your thirsty ass homegirl is doing her due
diligence in trying to find out which one of your friends she wants to do the
don’t with. The investigation process is tedious, right? “Where does he work?”
“Does he like cats?” “How soon can those felonies get expunged?” If Sway ain’t
got the answers, then what the hell makes her think I do? But as soon as
she hits you in the head with “Is he cute?” I’m stuck like Quvenzhané’s
kindergarten teacher calling attendance. I mean, the nigga ain’t ugly, so
“Surrrrre” should suffice, right?

AH: This is where I wish I
had a loud, Southern family from Family Feud to pat you on the back and
yell, “DASS RIGHT. GOOD ANSWER.” Such a human response, more than the
average man would likely say. I’m always fascinated (and disgusted by and
sympathetic for) by those men, regardless of orientation, who must go through
life asserting and declaring their *chest thump* MANHOOD, reminding others what
men don’t do, wondering if the way they open a beer or salute someone projects
something they don’t intend to. What pressure. I recently engaged with an
associate who hit me with the “I mean, I’m cool with gay dudes as long as they
don’t bring that around me.” This is where I point out that he has a face only
a (blind) mother could love, yet felt threatened. Ho(with crime scene teeth),
please. Lighting round: Were you ever less comfortable being around, or
talking to homogays? Were you ever less secure and felt…threatened?

JC: Only in two very
specific, isolated, non-homophobic (See? I even included a complementary
disclaimer) instances. Sorry Usher, but these are my confessions. The
first being in the presence of cross dressers. No, not hipsters (though their
branches blossom from the same flamboyant family tree), cross dressers.
I have an inherent phobia of glitter, so I find grown ass men baptized in pixie
dust and frolicking in stilettos more disturbing than a Rhianna lead single.
Throw in exaggerated “makeup” and karaoke power ballads serving as
accomplices, and our Saw Movie Soufflé is complete. The second instance
is when niggas like you (Yes, you. YOU, nigga) stroll your happy
asses up in the club and commandeer all the single women. I fucking hate that
shit. We can’t dance like ya’ll, we can’t dress like ya’ll, and we damn sure
can’t horde every ounce of estrogen within a specified zip code like ya’ll. I
mean, damn. We let ya’ll have Frank Ocean. The fuck else do ya’ll want?
Actually, now that I think about it, the reason I’m stranded on Atrophy Island
is because niggas like you (Yes, you. YOU, nigga) don’t play fair. Ya’ll
some Game Genie,
put-the-Power-Pad-on-the-ground-and-slap-it-with-your-hands-while-the-rest-of-us-are-out-of-breath,
ass niggas.

me, dancing with your girl. -alex

AH:Ah, cross dressers.
Mission One. Let me toss some coins into your change cup to commend you for
using “cross dressers” over “transvestites.” Yeah, uncommon gender
expressions can be alarming. But, having moved to big ass Los Angeles, you had better
get your Black ass ready to stand in line for wheatgrass or cocaine—or whatever
you people do—behind all types of interesting-looking people. See, in that same
situation, kitten heels or unflattering makeup would have gotten my eye
to twitching. Considering them, though, I have previously taken pleasure in
showing OUT once I’ve realized someone was uncomfortable in my presence (he was
Jamaican), because grow the fuck up. To your second moment, as someone who’s
has left plenty a party drenched from dancing, there is great motherfucking
freedom in being able to shake your body down to the ground without the burden
of having to look at once manly and unhideous and cool and humpable and
respectable and dateable and of a satisfactory credit score to attract breasted
people. You can have that struggle. I can put on a tank top and Chuck Taylors
and sway, awash in cool, in a corner with my brown liquor and like drug charges
to DMX, they will come, no matter what, leaving undicked yet
entertained. And everybody wins. Except you, He Who is Unsure of What To Do
With His Hands When Not Holding A Drink. Don’t hate the player, mi amigo. Hate
Macklemore.

JC: My indignation is
indiscriminate. As far as I’m concerned, there’s plenty of hatred in my heart
for the likes of yourself and the Grinch who stole Grammys. That said,
I’m not diametrically opposed to a peace treaty. Since I’m fresh out of red
velvet cake and superfluous Kitty Pryde apologies (because you can never
eat enough cake, anime), I’ve consulted with the rest of the Heterosexual
Atrophy Alliance and collectively, we propose the following: You will retain
the deed to your current ration of Y chromosomes, but ya’ll gotta come off some
of those X’s, yo. The nightclub pilfery must cease. If we have to
tolerate hours of audio abuse, cover charges and being tasked with mandatory
libation procurement, at the very least we deserve some cleavage to
fondle. Isn’t that in the constitution? We have rights, nigga. Give us free. My
sanity and dramatically improved dating prowess thank you in advance for your
compliance.

AH: My counteroffer: I’ll
bring my Awesome down to about an 8 on payday weekends so ye of dry dicks can
spend your rolled pennies on a chance at short- or long-term affection from a
breasted person. Tell Les Insecures that they can unclench when in the presence
of a Homosexican like myself, one who you shouldn’t assume wants to be
described as FABULOUS *glitter bomb*. Pass on them memo that it’s
embarrassingly presumptuous to assume that every gay dude yearns to make sweet
love to them down by the fire. Humble yourself in the presence of greatness,
lesser motherfucker. También, and more logically, I’m a HOMOsexual, not a
HYPERsexual, undiscerning hornball who takes whatever he can get. WE HAZ
STANDARDS, BITCH. Most likely, ain’t nobody, ovary-bearing or otherwise,
checking for you, broham. Gay men are always discussed in purely sexual terms,
negating the whole other 92.5% of our wondrous selves. If T-Pain, hideous yet
paid, can have an openly gay personal assistant, publicly bash homophobes, not
feel threatened when breathing the same air as a gay dude, and not begin all
his sentences with NO HOMO, then your brethren, ashy, overweight, and probably
not too far ahead of R Kelly’s deathbed confessions on the Scale of Things That
are Revolting, can chill the entire aquatic fuck out. Deal?

JC: But was the glitter bomb
really necessary though? You are a man bereft of both virtue and the
inherent delight of vaginal corridors. Bitter, single and black. How great thou
aren’t.

AH: Doesn’t Virtue live in a
storage unit with the lesser Braxton sisters? That’s what I heard. Anyway,
four bonus points for bereft. Include that usage in your next Womb
Raider job interview. Bitter? Me? As Whitney once said, I’m saving all my
accumulated Glory for the most impressive bidder with the smoothest vocabulary.
Or something. I suppose that’s what we’re all doing, no? Black: Yes. Single:
Yes. And alone. Not bitter. Fuck you.

___________________________________________A million thanks to my partner in crime:

Jay Connor is a prized pupil of the esteemed Professor Xavier and a Los Angeles based freelance writer. When he’s not preoccupied with accruing overdraft fees while chasing the dream, he can be found disseminating terrorist threatson Twitter and on Facebook. Direct all business inquiries, sexual innuendo and Nigerian email scams to deathtoadverbs@gmail.com.